Divided Loyalties
by susx
Summary: Justice League Animated fic. Hawkgirl has a few choices to make.
1. Default Chapter

Hope ya'll like it. I'll post the other parts soon.

***

It was amazing how different her communicator sounded when echoing off the insides of the toilet bowl, Hawkgirl thought tiredly. She stood up gracelessly, still more than a trifle woozy and nauseous, and walked over to the sink to splash her face and rinse out her mouth. She paused a moment to study herself critically in the mirror—God, what a wreck she looked! With her face white and pasty, and deep circles under her eyes, she looked, if possible, even worse than she felt. With a deep sigh, she walked into her living room and answered the persistent chime of the communicator.   
  
An image of a darkly handsome man flashed onto the screen.   
  
"Shy, it's Katar. Is everything…" His no-nonsense tone broke off, to be replaced by one of concern.   
  
"Shy, are you alright? You don't look too well." His sympathetic voice, deep and rich, still warmed her heart, even after, or perhaps because of, their lengthy separation.   
  
"I'm fine, just fine, Katar. Just a touch of what humans call the flu. It will blow over in a few days."   
  
"If you say so," he replied, apparently unconvinced. "Just take care of yourself, all right? I wouldn't want to have to worry about you on top of everything else that's going on."   
  
Hawkgirl bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. Katar didn't mean for what he said to come out sounding as uncaring as it did, and besides, they had business to attend to. This was no time for a domestic squabble.   
  
"Do you have the information?" he continued, dropping once again into the persona of the stern military commander that she had worked alongside, and eventually, fallen in love with.   
  
"Yes. I'm transmitting it now."   
  
"Excellent, excellent," he murmured, when he saw the information being flashed across his screen. "You've done more than we ever expected. If all goes according to plan, you'll hear from me again in two weeks to solidify our plans…and then, hopefully, I'll see you in a month," he said, giving her a wolfish smile and a wink.   
  
"Very well, Katar." Hawkgirl wished they had more time to talk about anything other than the bare essentials, but then, their time was always short due to their fear that their communications might be intercepted by hostile parties.   
  
"I love you Shayera. Hawkman out." The screen flashed blank.   
  
Hawkgirl dropped tiredly into her chair behind her desk, and rested her head in her arms. Christ, this was a lot harder than she thought it would be—a lot harder. And with her new worry, it was nigh on impossible. She bent her head over the desk and finally gave way to the silent tears that had threatened to overwhelm her for months. She was a traitor.   
  
***   
  
Still, she had to admit later, looking over her biographies, she was damn good at what she did. Physically, Superman was vulnerable to kryptonite, and emotionally, by his love for Lois Lane, a certain reporter in Metropolis. "Anything more?" she thought, while idly tapping her nails against the desk. Hmmm…perhaps his overall decency could be used as a weakness as well. Superman would not act if innocent lives were at stake, but how could that be used against him? Perhaps she could manipulate the circumstances such that…..   
  
Still tapping, and lost in thought, she failed to hear the first knock on her door, but abruptly started when the knock came harder and louder. She closed her laptop with a thud, and growled a not very pleasant sounding "Enter!"   
  
The door opened, leaving a concerned looking J'onn peering intently into the darkness of the room.   
  
"Hawkgirl—is this a bad time?"   
  
"No, J'onn, come in. I was just thinking about turning in, but I would welcome the interruption," she said, putting an easiness into her voice she didn't feel. "Why don't you turn on a few lights so we can see what we're doing, and have a seat?" The truth was she could see nearly as well in the dark as she could in the light, but one of the first rules of warfare was deception—you had the advantage if you knew more about the enemy than he about you. She sighed.   
  
"So, J'onn…what brought you here?"   
  
J'onn, never one to tip-toe around any issue—one of the qualities she admired about him—bluntly stated, "Mostly, concern about you. You look awful, and it seems like you've been under a lot of stress these past few weeks."   
  
She looked at him, concerned. He claimed he hadn't read her mind, and would never read it to invade her privacy, but she couldn't help being worried. If he caught one inkling of what was it her mind, even for a second, she and her plans would be screwed. How had he known the enormous stress she was under?   
  
Her surprise must've shown on her face, because he laughed and said, "Hawkgirl, it doesn't take a genius to figure things out. You look like you've lost about ten pounds in two weeks, you jump at the slightest thing, and you've been in a bad temper, even for you, which is a feat in itself."   
  
She carefully schooled her features into a look of unconcern. "I'm sorry if I've been worrying you J'onn. It's just this darn flu. Once I get over it, I'll be as good as new."   
  
"I can help you with your flu if you want, Hawkgirl. But I have a feeling that that is not all that is bothering you." His eyes, dark and intent, bored into hers.   
  
"How many times can I tell you, J'onn, I'm fine! It's nothing but this flu. I think I'm getting over it, so I'll decline your help for now, but if I feel worse, I'll be sure to come by and see you. As it is J'onn..." she stood up with an exaggerated yawn, "I must be more tired than I thought. I think I'll turn in now. They say plenty of sleep helps you get over these things."   
  
"Very well," he said, rising. "Pleasant dreams." And so saying, he vanished through the door.   
  
Nice trick, that, she thought idly. But all thought was shortly banished from her head as a wave of nausea washed over her. "Christ!" she swore in her head. It looked like another night she would be spending in close communion with the toilet.   
  
***

Two days later, around 0230, spending more bonding time with her new best friend, her wings crushed against herself in the small space of the bathroom, she admitted the truth to herself that she had dimly suspected for the past two weeks.   
  
God, what a joke! She and Katar had been trying, on and off, for more than three years, and after one f*cking night with an off-worlder…With dark humor, her mind chuckled at the unintentional pun.   
  
It was all the fault of this holiday they called Christmas. It had reminded her rather of a similar Thanagarian holiday—not the religious trappings, of course, but the gifts, the time spent with the family. That was what had gotten her in trouble.   
  
John was lonely that day—she could tell. He was hanging around the Watchtower, but not contentedly. He walked around, sitting down, standing up, starting a book, putting it down…just generally making a nuisance of himself. She watched, amusedly, to see how long that state of affairs would continue.   
  
Finally, an hour later, (he had held on for longer than she thought!), he came up to her, saying brightly, "Hawkgirl, it's a shame you have to spend the holiday alone! Why don't you come home with me? We could have a snowball fight, eat dinner, have a good time!"   
  
Hawkgirl restrained her initial reactions; on the one hand, anger, for making it sound as if he pitied her, and laughter, on the other, for making it sound as though SHE was the one who was restless and lonely. All she really wanted after doing this long Christmas day watch was to get some sleep, but it would be unprofessional of her to pass up the opportunity to observe one of the members of the Justice League up close and personally.   
  
She accepted, with more grace than she thought she had in her. "I'd love to!" she said. I'll be off in about an hour when Flash comes to relieve me. After that, I'm free."   
  
***   
  
"So the point is just to throw this…this…solid precipitation at one another?"   
  
"Yep!" said John enthusiastically. "One of my favorite games when I was a kid."   
  
Hawkgirl was not in a good mood. John had given her only fifteen minutes to construct a defensive position for herself, and she had had barely enough time to even consider her fields of fire for her projectiles, let alone see to the architectural solidity of the anterior walls in case of an ambush.   
  
"These…snowballs? They're not even lethal!" She could feel the exasperation creep into her voice. What did he take her for? She was an MP on Thanagar, and was an expert in weaponry. And he had the effrontery to suggest they fight a mock war with snowballs? Why, when she was a raw lieutenant she had taken part in deadly war game exercises!   
  
"No…" said John, sidling away from her. "But they're darn fun." And with that, he took a snowball he had hidden behind his back and smacked her squarely upside the chin with it. She could feel the snow slowly drip down her shirt. She saw red.   
  
"You bastard! You'll pay for that!" She picked up some snow and threw it after the retreating John. It narrowly missed him as he jumped into the trench he had constructed as part of his snow fort.   
  
"Nice try, Hawkgirl!" he called, his green eyes sparkling merrily. "But you'll have to do better than that!"   
  
***

An hour later, they had called a truce, with both of them claiming victory. Hawkgirl had claimed the most hits, but John had claimed the most strategic ones: his shots unerringly had seemed to maximize the drip effect—always getting her right above her scarf or hat, where the snow would strategically drip down and soak her clothes.   
  
"You've had more experience with this," she commented as they stood in the entryway to John's apartment, her wet clothes dripping on the carpet. "I'll get you next time."   
  
"Yeah right," he guffawed. "I don't care how many shots you got at me, nothing could ever beat the look you gave me after that first hit." He doubled over, laughing at the memory.   
  
"Ha ha," Shayera said, sourly. "I'm glad you're getting a good laugh at my expense."   
  
"No, no, Shy," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "It's just that..." he couldn't complete his thought and trailed off into laughter again. "The look…on your face…was so…" He started laughing even harder, so she could not hear the end of his sentence, which was probably just as well for him. She was about two seconds away from decking him with her mace.   
  
"At any rate," she said, carefully controlling her temper, "I think I'll just change my clothes and be on my way."   
  
Abruptly, John came over to her and grasped her arm before she could turn away. "No, Shy, please…stay. I want…I mean, we haven't even eaten yet!"   
  
She stopped, and looked into his eyes. His eyes looked at her, pleadingly, and she saw, in a flash, how very lonely he was, and maybe…how lonely she was too.   
  
"All right," she had agreed. "But dinner…is my choice."   
  
***   
  
"Are you sure this is safe, Shy?" he asked, his face filled with doubt as he saw the place she had taken him to.   
  
"No," she responded. "And really, that's the point."   
  
He took a look around at the intergalactic-- bar? restaurant? club?-- she had recommended. He was willing to bet any money that more than one of the people that swirled around him had a bounty on his or her head. In fact, he thought he recognized the purple-skinned woman in the far corner as Zin'Tara-- wanted by more than three planets for smuggling and attempted murder.   
  
"Shy…" he started, but she cut him off.   
  
"Look, John," she said, amused, "just settle down and have a good time, okay? You'd think these big, bad, aliens were scaring you." She knew that by throwing down a challenge like that, she'd effectively shut him up.   
  
She didn't know when they started to call each other by their first names, but she hadn't minded. A false familiarity would help him loosen his tongue, which was the reason she had gone out with him for in the first place. She smiled, wondering what effect her dress would have on him. Unless she'd quite lost her touch, she was willing to wager quite a considerable one.   
  
"Help me with my coat, would you?" she asked.   
  
He complied, silently, and she knew she had judged her attire correctly when she heard him draw in his breath, his hands poised in mid-air, holding her trench coat, that, until now, had hid her attire.   
  
The dress was far more daring than anything she would ever wear on her homeworld. But she had bought it for such an occasion as this, and, if she was not mistaken, it was well worth the money. It was simple, black, expensive, and left little to the imagination. It was cut low in the back to accommodate her wings, and was cut as low in the front as decency would allow. It was also slit up to mid-thigh, which, though it added to its allure, was probably also the only reason she could move in the darn thing. The truth was, it fit like a second skin, and made breathing nigh-on impossible, but, if John was taken in by it, it would be worth it.   
  
"Nice dress," he said, laconically. But she saw his eyes on her body, unable, or unwilling, to look away. She was pleased, though at the same time she was disappointed. Were all men the same? Apparently so. She somehow expected more from John, though perhaps she was being ridiculous. Was it just too much to expect that someone be attracted to her for who she was, rather than what she looked like?   
  
She sighed. Well, no time for regrets. She was here to work.   
  
She turned to John, flirting with him, and if she wasn't mistaken, giving him a pretty good look down her dress. She gritted her teeth.   
  
"Buy a girl a drink?" she asked.   


***   
  
Well, she thought, the evening wasn't entirely unproductive. If nothing else, she learned the hard way that John's ring prevented him from getting drunk—purging the toxins right from his body. Did it do the same for poisons? For that matter, what about illnesses? Did John ever get sick? She couldn't recall him ever looking under the weather…It probably wasn't of vital importance, but she would pass it on to Katar anyway. You never knew what could prove useful.   
  
Unfortunately, that knowledge was gained at the price of getting nearly smashed herself. She wasn't initially that worried about ordering alcoholic drinks. Thanagar wasn't the kind of place where one practiced prohibition, especially if you were in the military and wanted to be accepted as "one of the boys". She could drink nearly anyone under the table, and still walk away with a relatively clear head. But after six drinks (two of them doubles), when she noticed John looking as urbane and clear-headed as ever, she had questioned him on it (without, surprisingly, slurring too many of her words).   
  
"Well, I'd like to say it's because of my superior Marine training…" John smirked when Shayera glared at him, "…but to tell the truth, it's my ring. It always makes sure I'm fit for duty." His grin slipped, and his look became remorseful. "Sometimes, though, anymore, I think that's all I'm fit for. My life is the Green Lantern Corps."   
  
He looked down at the table, embarrassed at having revealed too much. Impulsively (was it the liquor?), she reached across the table and grasped his hand. "You're not the only one who's lonely, John. I'm far away from my home, my family, and my job. And God only knows when I'll ever see any of them again."   
  
John raised his eyes to look at her. "I'm sorry, Shayera. I guess I never thought of you that way. You always seemed so…put-together. Self-confident."   
  
"Yeah…well…" she muttered, unsure of what to say. She grabbed her purse. "I think it's time we left."   
  
***   
  
John walked her back to her quarters in silence, just as he had been on the whole way back to the Watchtower. The silence, however, wasn't wholly unpleasant—it was more the silence of contentment, of people who were happy enough not to say anything.   
  
Shayera was honest enough with herself to admit that. She was happy now, with John. It was, perhaps, her duty to inititate conversation, to get John to admit more about himself. But this was one night when duty could go f*ck itself. She was happy, and she was, if not an ordinary woman, she was at least who she said she was. She wasn't a traitor. Not tonight, anyway.   
  
Upon reaching her door, she turned to Lantern, "Goodnight, John. I had a good time tonight. And…Merry Christmas," she said, feeling the unfamiliar words on her tongue.   
  
A look of near-comic realization dawned over his face. "That's right," he said. "I almost forgot!" He reached into his coat and came out with a small, flat, wrapped present. "Merry Christmas, Shy. I was going to give it to you after the snowball fight at my house, but what with everything, I totally forgot."   
  
Tears pricked her eyes. She wasn't usually so sentimental, but something about him getting her a present touched her. She covered up her emotions by quick speech. "Come in, come in, John," she said, turning away quickly and opening the door, and switching on the lights.   
  
"I'm afraid I didn't get you anything," she said apologetically, as he seated himself comfortably on the couch.   
  
"That's all right," he said. "To be honest, I wasn't sure whether to get you anything either. But when I saw this, I thought of you," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Go ahead, open it!"   
  
She ripped into the paper eagerly, to reveal…a flat screen. "What is it?" she asked, turning to Lantern.   
  
He came up behind her, and touched a small button on the reverse side of the screen, to show…   
  
My God…it couldn't be. "Thanagar?" she asked, with a catch in her voice. "How did you…how did you get this?"   
  
He winked at her. "Thanagar isn't part of a galaxy the League usually patrols. But that doesn't mean we haven't heard of it. About ten years ago, we sent an unmanned probe to that section of the universe. And voila! Thanagar."   
  
"John, I don't know how to…that is, I never expected…" she stared at the image of her homeworld, entranced.   
  
"Well, if anything," he said, "you don't need to feel lonely any more, at least tonight. All you have to do is look at that picture, and you can imagine the…how many? Four billion people waiting for your safe return." He smiled at her, and moved to the door, obviously ready to take his leave.   
  
"Wait," she said, putting the picture down on the couch, and coming over to him, putting her hand on his arm. "You're right about not being lonely. But…I also wouldn't be lonely if you stayed here tonight."   
  
"Well," he gulped, looking wildly around the room. "I suppose I could sleep on the couch…"   
  
"You could," she said, putting her arms around his neck. "But that's not what I had in mind…" And so saying, she pulled his lips down to hers…   
  
***

It was only a one-time thing, of course. A momentary slip, the result of alcohol, loneliness, and the holiday they called Christmas. And of course, there was Katar. The very pain of betraying him would insure such a thing would never, could never, happen again. But dear God, what a night! Not, of course, that she would ever admit it, even under pain of torture. But whoever said this Green Lantern was unimaginative had obviously never….She blushed to roots of her hairline just remembering. It was a passion-filled night, the kind where you threw caution to the winds in the heat of the moment.   
  
That, of course, was her big mistake. Which left her with her present predicament. Not that anyone could blame her. Thanagarians, as a race, were notoriously xenophobic, not the least because their DNA had proved remarkably resistant to intra-species reproduction. The few half-Thanagarians that existed were helped into the world by an inordinate amount of medical science.   
  
She had suspected the truth when she first came down with her "flu" two weeks ago. How, she didn't know, as of the two possibilities, the flu was by far the likeliest, but the possibility was always there, floating like a specter at the back of her mind. And now that this "flu" had lasted two weeks, the last obstacle to the possibility had been removed. No flu lasted that long. And certain other things had begun to add up too.   
  
She bit back hysterical laughter, over the toilet once more, vomiting up what little food she had managed to keep down that day. What were the frigging chances? What? One in a million? One in a billion? And she was the lucky one who managed to beat the odds!   
  
What the hell was she going to do? She could just imagine the possible conversations with Katar:   
"Hey, honey! Guess what? I'm a medical miracle!"   
"Hi, honey! I'm pregnant with another man's child, but I did it for the mission!"   
"Hey, Katar, you might want to think about getting that legislation you passed on citizenship repealed. Why? Well, because our child is going to be only half Thanagarian, and…"   
  
No, there was no way in hell that this was going to turn out okay. She didn't need this now! She had less than one week left to give her final report and less than three before the invasion. She had so much to worry about already without having this new, additional, unwanted worry.   
  
Damn it all to hell! What was she going to do?   
  
*** 


	2. Chapter 2

Hey, this is the next part. There's going to be one more coming up.

I wrote this a bit ago, and as I'm reading over it, I'm not so sure I made the right choices anymore, but… 

::Shrugs::

If you don't like something, you can always tell me.

***

"...besides that, there's not much new to brief you on. The final battle plans have been drawn up, and I am transmitting them to you, as well as your own orders, to read at your leisure. They're fairly self-explanatory, and I don't anticipate you having any questions or problems with them."   
  
"As you say, Katar," Shayera responded, unable to meet his eyes.   
  
"And Shayera," his stern face softened, "I love you. Nobody could have done a better job on this mission than you have."   
  
Shayera looked up, startled by his compliment. Katar was a kind and generous man, but compliments rarely flowed from his lips unless they were truly deserved. "Thank you, Katar. It's just…I don't understand. The more I see of these humans…they're not bad people, Katar! Some of them are, it's true, but most are good, honest, friendly…"   
  
Katar shook his head, sorrowfully. "You know as well as I do that we need those iridium deposits if we're to have a chance of winning our war with Achaea. As it is, unless we get that iridium for our new weapons prototypes, we're doomed. Out-gunned and overmatched…but you know that already, Shy."   
  
"But have we tried everything, Katar? _Everything?_ Does it have to come to this?" Shayera heard a hysterical note creeping into her voice that she was powerless to control.   
  
"Shayera...you know our government tried, through intermediaries, to trade for the iridium. But all our attempts were rebuffed. We don't have time, anymore, to dicker over trade regulations. We need that iridium, and we need it now. Our reconaissance shows Earth to have the most of it, and to be the least well-defended. As it is, it already may be too late."   
  
"But…" she started.   
  
A hard edge crept into his voice. "Do you have a problem carrying out your orders, _colonel_?"   
  
Shayera stiffened. "No…sir!"   
  
He sighed. "Do you think I welcome this invasion? That I look forward to the loss of innocent life it will cause?" His face held a stricken look. "As the architect of this operation, I will be personally responsible for each and every casualty…on both sides. Each parent that loses their child, each child turned into an orphan…each lover that waits in vain for their loved one to return, each sibling and each friend that someone loses…that will all be my fault. Do you think I would do this if there was any other way? _Do you?_"   
  
"I'm sorry, Katar," she whispered, reaching for him, touching the screen, willing that terrible, ghastly look away from his eyes. "I understand…"   
  
He gave her one final, agonized glance before cutting the communicator. "Katar out."   
  
***   
  
Shayera lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her last tears had been spent some hours ago. She had cried for her husband, and his terrible choice. Such a fine, upstanding man, who should never have been in the military—this war was going to kill him. She could imagine him as a farmer, actually, rising early each day, taking great care and satisfaction in his long hours of hard work, watching his fields bear fruit, tending to his crops. Or maybe not a farmer—a professor of philosophy: working long evenings, absorbed in his books, asking difficult questions about the whys, wheres, and whens of existence. But instead, this war had turned her beautiful, sensitive husband, just like thousands of other innocents, into a butcher.   
  
She had cried also for herself. She had cried out for her loneliness, her deceptions, for making her into a machine instead of human being. For the things she had done, and would do, that she would never be able to forgive herself for. For the simple, uncomplicated girl she had been, whose notions of right and wrong were painted in broad tones of black and white, who fought loudly, felt passionately, and loved simply and truly—the girl she could never be again.   
  
But most of all, she had cried for her child, her miracle, who could never be allowed to see the light of day. Her half-bred child, Thanagarian and human, who would never be allowed to smile, or laugh, or cry. Her child!--who would never come running to her with a scraped knee to kiss it better, who would never be able to lisp out "Mama," who would never know what a fine man his father was, how noble or how loving.   
  
She had made her decision after talking with Katar. She didn't care so much for herself, although she would be ridiculed and ostracized for her pregnancy and her child. She could have moved, far away, to a place where no one had heard of her, where no cruel judgements would be made, where she could, insofar as possible, start over. But her husband…he didn't deserve that. Not ever, but especially not now. Her husband was kind and loving, but not forgiving. He made, and kept, high standards for himself, and expected others to do so as well. A lapse such as this her husband would not forgive of her, but perhaps more importantly, he would never forgive himself. He had sent her on this mission, and it would be himself he would turn to in passing the harshest judgement. He would blame himself for sending her away, for causing her loneliness, perhaps feeling he had left her no other option.   
  
Shayera knew what she had to do in the coming weeks. And, God help her, she would do it.   
  
***

The words on the screen echoed through her head: _Neutralize the Justice League_.   
  
She stared at the screen, the rest of her orders forgotten, the black letters swimming illegibly together, turning into a distant blur, as her mind re-echoed the words:   
  
_Neutralize the Justice League…neutralize…_   
  
She had known her information would be used to help prevent the Justice League from interfering in their battle plans…but to do it—herself? And she was under no illusions about the meaning of "neutralize". She was being encouraged to get rid of them—by any means necessary.   
  
_How else did you think you were going to stop them from interfering, dummy? Asking them very nicely?_   
  
The truth was that she hadn't thought about it, not really. The few times she had, she had vaguely thought that somehow, the Thanagarian armies would take care of the Justice League, based on the information she provided. She had expected the final decision and responsibility to be taken out of her hands.   
  
And here she had thought she had nerved herself last night for all that she had to do. She was wrong. This was far worse than she had imagined.   
  
Neutralize...   
  
Her mind instinctively protested against the military euphemism. She believed in calling a spade a spade. Her mission was simple, stripped of its military bullshit: _Kill your friends_.   
  
Could she do it? Did she dare, now that she could no longer be a Pilate, and wash her hands of the affair? Now that she could no longer pretend ignorance of their ultimate fates?   
  
Could she kill Superman, that over-powered, good-natured, boy scout? He got on her nerves, sometimes, it was true…but death? What about J'onn, Wonder Woman, and Batman? War killed innocent people all the time, but only impersonally. And for the combatants, it was a fair, if grotesque, fight. It pitted wit against wit, skill against skill, technology against technology. This cold-blooded killing she was being called to do was somehow obscene.   
  
The Flash especially would bother her—haunt her. Beneath that wise-cracking man-of-the-world exterior, he was really nothing more than a kid. How old was he even? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? He had barely even had time to tap the limits of his powers. _The fastest man alive with a limp…ha! I couldn't have caught him even if I had wanted to.   
_  
And John—she closed her eyes as memories came back to her…arguing all on the way to War World…her insane, irrational jealousy of Katma Tui…an hour spent laughing in the snow…tender endearments, whispered in the dark. No, best not to think about John.   
  
But even as her conscience protested once more, she quelled it ruthlessly. In for a penny, in for a pound. If she could, cold-bloodedly, kill an innocent life for the mission, then she could—she must—do this as well. She couldn't balk at the one, but not the other.   
  
_Alea iacta est_. If the mission was to be her top priority, then so be it.   
  
Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she began her preparations. She could—and would—do it. She knew how, and it would only take a few days to make arrangements and set the plan in motion. Until then, there was nothing to do but wait.

***

Hawkgirl hated Saltines. Really. She hated everything about them. She hated the plastic bags they came in that always left the crackers stale about five seconds after they had been opened. She hated the fine little cracker dust and crumbs that always made a mess and invariably made her sneeze. She hated how the crackers turned into a glue-like substance in her mouth and always needed to be rinsed down with something liquid. But when she felt this nauseous, she really didn't have a choice. And not eating was not really an option. The few times she had tried that, she had ended up light-headed and dizzy.   
  
So, that left the Saltines. Hawkgirl sighed, and pulled the box down from the shelf in the kitchen while she waited for her tea. She knew she was being irrational. Her ire over the crackers in the face of everything else on her mind would have been amusing, if it hadn't been so banal. But she recognized the symptom for what it was: her mind's attempt to fixate on something less monumental than the problems it was facing, and focus on something more manageable. At least it was working.   
  
She sat down with her tea and crackers, hoping she could eat quickly and leave, thus avoiding running into anyone and needing to make idle chit-chat. Most of the League members were inveterately cheerful in the morning, a personal habit that she found annoying at the best of times.   
  
No sooner than she had thought this, however, she heard a light footfall behind her.   
  
She looked up as Batman swept into the room. She shrugged. Perfect. Being with Batman would be the next best thing to being by herself. She couldn't recall the last time he'd spoken two words with her outside of work.   
  
He grabbed a banana and a cup of coffee, and sat down across from her. He eyed her breakfast critically.   
  
"Is that all you're eating?" he said, shortly.   
  
She looked up at him incredulously. "I didn't realize one of your new duties around here was nutritional expert," she said, sarcasm lacing her voice. "Besides, you're not eating much more yourself."   
  
"I'm not the one who's pregnant."   
  
She felt as though she had been punched in the gut. Trite denials ran through her head, but stuck in her throat. She felt, absurdly, as though she were choking. "How did you know?" she wanted to demand. In retrospect, it must not have been too hard to figure out. Her lingering nausea, the tension between John and herself since Christmas, her irrational mood swings… He had merely added two and two together and got four, a sum the rest of the Justice Leaguers hadn't gotten around to computing yet.   
  
He watched her, impassively, waiting for a response, reading each of her emotions as they chased their way across her face: disbelief, anger, fear, denial…acceptance.   
  
"Yes," she said, confirming what he already knew. "But not for long."   
  
"I see," he said. His expression didn't change as he calmly pushed his chair away from the table, and threw away his banana peel. He grabbed his coffee cup off the table, and walked to the door. He paused for a second on the threshold, and turned around, his face a forbidding granite mask.   
  
"Somehow, Hawkgirl, I expected better of you."   
  
***   
  
She loved the expression "KISS". When she got back to Thanagar, she would probably post herself a reminder of it where she could see it everyday. Keep it simple, stupid.   
  
She had just finished e-mailing an announcement to all the members of the Justice League, requesting they meet her in the conference room at 1900 sharp for a "very important announcement." Actually, in retrospect, Batman had played right into her hands this morning. Naturally suspicious, he probably would have been on his guard that day, and done a little digging. Now she had no doubt that he would attribute the meeting to an announcement of her pregnancy, and a possible change of heart about it.   
  
Everything appeared to be set for tomorrow. Her contacts had replied to her regarding the explosives. She could get them with no questions asked. Placed next to the Watchtower's power generator, set to detonate at 1901…mission accomplished. The entire Watchtower would explode like a Roman candle. Not the most intricate plan, but…KISS.   
  
And the clinic had gotten back to her regarding her other appointment as well. One o'clock.   
  
Tomorrow. _If she could just get through tomorrow_, she thought. Just don't think, and don't feel. On the phone earlier today, it was as if she was in a fog, watching as she heard someone else make these arrangements. Watching, dispassionately, as this strange woman set about planning the murder of seven people tomorrow.   
  
_Don't think, don't feel_.   
  
Lost in thought, she was startled when a knock pulled her out of her reverie. "Shayera," a voice called from the other side of the door. "It's me, John. Open up."   
  
***   


John brushed past her, into her room, without so much as a by-your-leave.   
  
"Come in, John," she said sarcastically, shutting the door.   
  
She turned to face him, and met his accusatory glance. She sighed. She suddenly felt so very tired. No, not tired. Weary. She didn't have the energy for this, this herculean task of sorting out emotions and dealing with feelings, not when it would all prove so very inconclusive. Not now.   
  
John, obviously having come prepared for an argument, looked as though he was about to say something; then, perhaps warned by her demeanor, changed his mind. He came over to her, to where she stood by the door, and cupped her chin gently in his hand, drawing her face to look up at his.   
  
"I love you," he said, simply.   
  
I love you. No harsh words, no discussions, no deceptions. I love you.   
  
Did it matter? No. He would die tomorrow, by her hand.   
  
Did it matter? Yes. For tonight, perhaps, it mattered.   
  
"John…come with me."   
  
  
She was arcing high above the sky, stretching her wings, feeling a glorious rush of air, through her wings, her hair…Faster and faster, until she felt the exhilaration that could only come from flying.   
  
"Did you ever notice," she asked, "how everything looks better from up here?"   
  
"Look at that," she said, pointing to a small speck on the landscape below. It was a house on a farm, lights twinkling merrily through the windows. "From here, it looks ideal, pastoral. It looks like a place you'd want to live, where no one locks their doors at night, and everyone knows everybody else."   
  
She stopped for a moment, beside John, contemplating the scene in silence. Then she turned away with a cynical twist to her lips. "It's too bad my job has taught me that the husband probably beats his kids, his wife is an alcoholic, and the children are juvenile delinquents."   
  
"Shayera…" he started, but she was already off again.   
  
_Fly Faster_, her mind urged, and she was happy to comply. The cold wind stung her cheeks, becoming an enemy and not a friend. _Faster_, she thought, fighting against the wind, until her face and extremeties were freezing and numb. _Faster_ as the landscape became a blur beneath her. _Faster_ as the tears coursed down her cheeks…but she could never go fast enough.   
  
John caught up to her, laying a restraining hand on her arm. How foolish to think she could outrun her problems, when she couldn't even outrun him.   
  
She stopped, refusing to look at him, as he brought them gently down to the ground. It was dark—rural and deserted. There was no moon to betray the glinting wetness of her tears.   
  
"Shayera, what's wrong?" he asked, simply.   
  
She walked away from him, perhaps as much to buy herself time as to escape from him, and the enclosing circle of his arms—arms that could only offer false comfort to her this night. She seated herself on a log, and looked up at his silhouette.   
  
She answered a question with a question. "Why didn't you talk to me after Christmas?"   
  
He sighed.   
  
It was unfair. Afraid she had irreparably sundered their friendship, and unable to have a relationship, she hadn't done anything herself to mend the rift that had sprung up between her and John. She was playing a cruel game, indeed—the answer hardly mattered—as a Judas, she had forfeited any expectation of honesty between herself and her team members. She hadn't wanted—hadn't had the right—to ask, but now it seemed she needed desperately to know.   
  
He stayed silent for a long moment, so long she was afraid he wasn't going to answer her. She was on the verge of apologizing—for the question and the evening—and leaving. This had been a mistake. To talk to him and to be with him…it was only going to make her job more difficult.   
  
"I was waiting for you to make the first move. When you didn't, I figured you were drunk and regretted what had happened."   
  
"I wasn't drunk!" she protested.   
  
She felt, rather than saw, him raise his eyebrow.   
  
"Not that drunk," she quickly amended.   
  
"Really?" he said. "I figured you had to be pretty far gone to agree to do that neat pos—"   
  
"John!"   
  
"And you said that alien magazine I picked up on War World was rubbish."   
  
She heard the teasing tone in his voice, and couldn't help laughing at him, with him—until she remembered, and her laughter choked on a sob.   
  
He heard the catch in her voice before she could stifle it, and moved swiftly over to where she sat, seizing her by the shoulders.   
  
"Shayera, what's wrong? I've never seen you like this. Everyone in the League is worried about you, but you won't talk to us! We want to help you—I want to help you. You're not yourself. You don't seem to notice anything anymore. Diana's wracked her brains to think of things the two of you might like to do—clubs, bars, shopping—but you always turn her down! Flash is making an idiot of himself flirting with you—hell, I've been tempted to deck him a few times—and you don't say a word. We were so worried, we asked J'onn to talk with you, find out what was wrong, and you tell him 'nothing'!"   
  
"I didn't know I was that transparent."   
  
"We're your friends, Shy! I kept my distance because I was afraid I might be part of the problem, but please...if there's anything I can do…." He trailed off, his hand coming up to brush the tears off her cheeks.   
  
"Oh, John," she sobbed, unable to control the tears she thought she had completely cried out two days ago.   
He cradled her against him, one hand smoothing her hair, the other on her back, as she gave full vent to her sorrow against his chest.   
  
He spoke softly against her. "I've been so worried about you, Shy. These past few weeks, then your e-mail, and then when I ran into Batman…"   
  
She abruptly stiffened against him, and drew away.   
  
"What did he tell you?" she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.   
  
"He just said I should see you. That you needed to speak with me," he replied, confused. "And it seems to me that you did. Now please, Shy…tell me. Let me help you. What's wrong?"   
  
_I'm a liar. I'm a spy. I'm an adulteress. I'm a traitor. I'm a murderer. And God forgive me, I love you far more than I love my husband._   
  
Sitting here, she had the courage to admit the truth to herself. Her husband was all that was good and kind and honorable. But John was—John was just as quick to temper as she was. He was insufferably self-righteous. He was passionate. He made her laugh.   
  
But that didn't change anything. Her duty was still clear, and if she had to sacrifice herself for her people…then that's what she had to do. This would just make it more difficult.   
  
But seeing him, in the darkness, in front of her, ready to love her…   
  
_No, John_…she thought_. Don't waste your love on me. Not even for tonight_.   
  
"I'm pregnant," she said, flatly.   
  
She heard his sharp intake of breath. "Well…that's a bit of a surprise."   
  
She laughed, bitterly. "It was to me, too."   
  
He heard the distress in her voice, misinterpreted it. He reached over to squeeze her hand. "It's all right, Shy. We'll figure something out."   
  
_Even now_, she thought, _even now you could stop. Let his last memories of you be good ones_.   
  
She drew in breath to speak, then stopped. No…she couldn't live knowing she had sunk the dagger between his ribs while smiling sweetly at him. Let him see her for how vile she was.   
  
"You don't understand, John. I don't want it."   
  
His hand tightened on hers.   
  
"I'm sorry, John, I just can't."   
  
He got up abruptly, nearly knocking her over, and stood with his back to her, hurt and tension radiating from him.   
  
He spoke, his tone hoarse and tight. "I see…so carrying my child—" his voice cracked before he could get it under control—"is…distasteful…to you."   
  
_Distasteful?_ she thought, still reeling from seeing what effect her words had had_. Of course it's distasteful. I'm puking, I have wild mood swings, I have to pee every two hours_…And then she suddenly realized that that wasn't what he meant. _Oh no, John, no, however could you think that?_   
  
"Yes, it is."   
  
He turned around then, faster than she could have countenanced, his hands reaching for her neck, the power of his ring responding to his emotion, giving an unholy green glow to his eyes.   
  
"You little—"   
  
Then, just as suddenly, he stopped, centimeters from choking her, as he realized what he was about to do. He put his hands down, and stepped away from her, the green light of his ring slowly fading.   
  
"When?" he demanded, his deep, rich voice laden with pain.   
  
"Tomorrow."   
  
She saw his face. She had no idea… the pain, the betrayal…involuntarily, she reached for him, but he started from her hand as if it were a snake. He took off abruptly, faster than she had ever seen him. In seconds, he was a speck against the sky.   
  
_Is that what you really wanted to do, you little bitch? Make him hurt as much as you did?_   
  
She turned away, flying off in the opposite direction.   
  
***   


"Lieutenant Colonel Shayera Hol reporting to General Katar Hol as ordered, sir!"   
  
Her husband, she observed dispassionately, looked as handsome as ever. How very lucky not to be burdened with a conscience.   
  
That was unfair, her mind rebuked.   
  
"Shy, is everything there alright? When I wasn't able to get in touch with you last night, I was worried."   
  
"Everything is under control here, sir," she responded.   
  
"Are you sure, Shy?" he asked, peering at her. "You don't look very well—worse than before, in fact."   
  
She didn't doubt it. She hadn't gotten any sleep last night, had flown around until dawn, in fact. The coming of the day, however, hadn't provided any relief. And she had come back to the Watchtower to find an urgent message from her husband awaiting her, the very last person she wanted to talk to.   
  
Her heart ached for this planet, its inhabitants—did he understand what he was asking her to do? She knew her husband, knew his distaste for needless bloodshed, knew there wouldn't be any more casualties than necessary. But this planet, its people…would be defeated. Even the gentlest yoke would be intolerable to them, would irreparably change them. Her husband could rationalize his choice because he saw only the concepts of his actions, not the realities. A "military action" against Earth to seize its valuable raw materials was acceptable if it saved Thanagar. He didn't see that by saving Thanagar, they would be destroying Earth.   
  
She remembered when she had met him, eight years ago. She was twenty, not yet in the military, and he was thirty-five. He had seemed like one of fate's golden children. He had fought in five major campaigns with nary a scratch to show for it, and was already on the fast track to general. He was well-liked and respected by everyone, both by his men and his superiors. In the naivete of her youth, he had seemed to know everything, and her unquestioning acceptance of his judgements had made her a lieutenant colonel in record time. It was he who had gotten her this assignment, in a bit of nepotism that had elated her at the time. She would make colonel when she got back.   
  
Colonel…her mind gave a bitter laugh. That hardly mattered now.   
  
She ached to be able to confide her burden to someone else, as much as she had sworn to shoulder it herself.   
  
"Sir, I…" she paused a long moment, then swallowed, and looked her husband in the eye. "Katar, I've been away from Thanagar for so long. It's hard for me…my job…I don't know…" she paused again to collect herself, emotion threatening to overwhelm her words. Please understand—please help me do this.   
  
Her husband looked at her, his dark eyes filled with concern as he saw her distress.   
  
"Shayera…honey…you don't have to worry. I thought you knew me better than that!" he said, attempting a grin to cheer her up. "I've made sure everyone here has been getting your reports, and everyone knows that we couldn't have gotten our intelligence without you. In fact, just between you and me," he said, trying—and failing—to look conspiratorial, "I wouldn't be surprised if you won the Imperial War Cross."   
  
She stared at her husband, appalled. He thought she was upset because of her career?   
  
He mistook her horror for surprise. "I had hoped to keep it quiet until you got back, but you managed to weasel it out of me." He sighed, theatrically. "I know, I know…it seems unfair. I've spent my career risking life and limb, and all I get is the Distinguished Service Medal, and my wife gets a cushy, plum assignment…"   
  
She couldn't take any more. "Sir, what was the urgent message you wished to relay to me?"   
  
He looked suddenly grim, making the quick adjustment back to the business at hand. "We're thinking of moving the timetable for the invasion forward. We need that iridium desperately. Everything is already in place here on our end. Have you accomplished your objective yet?"   
  
"No, sir, but I've made the arrangements. It will be done by this evening."   
  
He nodded. "Excellent. The sooner the better, Shayera. Without them, we should be able to reduce our casualties to a minimum. Signal me as soon as you've neutralized the Justice League. Some last minute arrangements and coordination will be necessary, but you could see us as soon as the beginning of next week. I'll keep you informed. Any questions?"   
  
Yes. Who are you, and what have you done with the man I married? How do you live with yourself? How am I going to live with myself?   
  
"No, sir."   
  
***   
  
It was much worse than she had thought it could be. She felt a sense of revulsion so strong, her stomach churned. If she sniffed hard enough, it seemed, she could also smell that sickly-sweet scent of death, that cloyed and repelled at the same time. _Calm down, it's the air freshener._   
  
It was obscene. She expected that they would leave her alone, maybe treat her with a faint disdain as befit those unlucky enough to be here. But no. They had been unfailingly polite, giving her reassuring smiles. Kindness personified. She felt like choking. _You know it's their job, and you're paying through the nose for it._   
  
It was a joke. It had to be. She would wake up. _Wake up wake up wake up wake up_.   
  
They were so solicitous. "Now miss, we'll need to take a sonogram. We do that to determine the age of the fetus. Don't worry, it won't hurt." _God forbid she feel a thing!_   
  
It was…everything was surreal. It was as if she had wandered in to an alternate reality, where no one behaved as they should. She had determined to do this, to make the best of a terrible situation. But it was still an awful choice, one she should be condemned for, reviled for, judged for…   
  
"Miss…" a different smiling face snapped her out of her thoughts. "If you just come with me, we'd like to have you talk with our counselor."   
  
"What?"   
  
"Our counselor. She'll just speak with you a little more about your procedure, any questions or concerns you may have," the face reassured her.   
  
God damn it to hell. This is what she got for going to a high-end place and getting a private appointment.   
  
She listened as another kind, intent face introduced herself as Karen, who was here to help her and answer any questions she might have. Karen, as best as Shayera could tell, wanted to project a friendly, confident air. Part of that seemed to include calling her by her first name. Shayera hated that. Karen also had poorly dyed blonde hair, and was surrounded by a vague smell of cigarette smoke. She dressed well, though. She had on one of those long black blazers that had, if not gone out of fashion, at least were not as popular as they once were, but were undeniably good at covering up heavy thighs, which, if Shayera was any judge of the situation, Karen was unluckily cursed with, as well as being—   
  
"—gentle suction, not painful—"   
  
Shayera winced, and tried to focus on Karen's outfit again. She had on one of those expensive French blue shirts that looked nice, although not so much with Karen, because Karen had a rather washed out complexion that dark colors weren't suited for. She mentally switched Karen's shirt to a pastel blue. Much better, she thought. Actually, she herself looked pretty nice in that French blue color, although she didn't get to wear it often, what with—   
  
"—remaining tissue, to prevent infection—"   
  
Shayera grimaced. Karen and her terrible earnestness was getting hard to ignore. Shut up Karen to the tune of _Frere_ _Jacques_ was doing nicely_. Shut up Karen, Shut up Karen, close your mouth_—   
  
"—any questions?"   
  
"No Karen," she said, smiling sweetly. "Actually, you've explained everything very well." Too well.   
  
"Excellent. Now, if you'll just..."   
  
She rested her hand gently on her abdomen. _I'm sorry_. She had resisted doing this throughout her pregnancy—she didn't want to make it seem more real than it had been. But now…now it seemed she owed her child at least an acknowledgement of his or her existence, before that existence was terminated.   
  
_You don't have to do this.   
  
Yes I do—for my husband, and for Thanagar.   
  
Don't you have a choice?   
  
Yes, but I couldn't do that to them.   
  
But what are they doing to Earth?   
  
They have to! We'll lose—perish otherwise!   
  
Is it worth it to win if you lose your soul? Do you want to live in a Thanagar that preys on the weak to ensure its own survival? Or is a shiny medal hanging around your neck the only thing that's important to you?_   


"Excuse me, Karen," she said, standing and interrupting the other woman's monologue. "I have to go." 

***

Shayera looked at her watch. 1830. There wasn't much time.   
  
"Hawkgirl to Watchtower."   
  
"Batman here."   
  
She breathed a sigh of relief. Batman wouldn't waste her time with incredulous questions, just do as she said. The accounting later, though…   
  
"Batman, there are explosives in the Watchtower, rigged to go off at 1900."   
  
"I see." His voice held none of the surprise anyone else would have registered in such a situation.   
  
"Listen to me. Here's what you have to do to disarm them…"   
  
Batman listened carefully, and proceeded to do the delicate operation. She heard the last snick of clippers on wire before he informed her, tersely, "It's done."   
  
"Thank God," she said.   
  
"And Hawkgirl?"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"You have a lot of explaining to do when you get back to the Watchtower."   
  
***   
  
When she got back to the Watchtower, she was confronted by the entire Justice League, with a particularly ominous looking Batman and John.   
  
"Please," she raised her hands, "I know this doesn't make a lot of sense. I promise to tell you everything in the Conference Room in five minutes. But please, just give me that five minutes."   
  
Batman looked ready to protest. Superman, though, stepped forward.   
  
"I think," he said, shooting a quelling look at Batman, "that since you've just saved all of our lives, that that's the least we can do. We'll see you in the conference room in a few moments."   
  
As she ran to her room, she blessed Superman and his trusting nature. Not that she deserved it…   
  
Her next step was to contact Katar.   
  
"Shayera…good news? Can the invasion proceed as planned?"   
  
"Katar, I'm about to tell the Justice League of Thanagar's invasion plans."   
  
"What?" the blood drained from his face, as he searched for something to say. "You're not serious."   
  
"Yes I am." She felt unemotional, looking at her husband's face. She expected to feel some twinge of remorse, but she didn't. She was, for the first time in months, taking independent action. And she was doing what she thought was right. That had to count for something. _Didn't it?_   
  
"Shayera…why? Thanagar…"   
  
"Katar—we can't do this. It's wrong. Achaea attacked us, and we're defending ourselves. But if we attack Earth, even if we win, how are we any different?"   
  
"This is a fine time to be debating ethical points with me," he hissed. "You do know you're signing your planet's death warrant—and your own, for that matter?"   
  
"Yes, I do. Lieutenant Colonel Hol out." She saluted, then cut the connection.   
  
***   
  
"So you're saying this invasion will happen tomorrow or the day after?" Batman quizzed her.   
  
"As soon as possible. Now that they know I've informed you, the element of surprise is all they have left."   
  
The Justice League had gathered around the conference table a half hour ago to hear her explanation. Batman was the only member who was still speaking with her. The expressions on the other League members' faces had ranged from disbelief to disgust, and finally to shocked revulsion when they learned about her bomb plot. She had no doubt Batman probably felt the same, but was better at hiding it.   
  
"All right," he said. "We'll need times, strengths, plans, that sort of thing as soon as possible if we're going to properly prepare."   
  
"No," she said, quietly.   
  
"No? What do you mean, no? How are we going to prepare for this if you don't tell us?" Batman's voice finally betrayed the annoyance and anger he had no doubt been feeling for the entire conversation. She had no doubt more than a small measure of it was for himself, for not finding out she was a spy sooner. Instead, she had fooled him brilliantly, the same as she had all the rest.   
  
"I meant what I said. There's an invasion planned, and Thanagar is gunning for Earth's iridium deposits. You've had the only warning I'm going to give you. It's a fair fight now. You'll have to figure out the rest for yourself."   
  
They cajoled her, argued with her, and pleaded with her, but to no avail. Her answer still was, and would remain, a resounding no. It wasn't right that Thanagar strike the Earth without warning, killing off its best and only defenses in the Justice League in a bit of underhanded maneuvering. But nor could she actively help the Justice League kill her countrymen either.   
  
She could see her friends—_they're not your friends anymore, idiot_—didn't understand this piece of sophistry, but she did. Thanagar was saved. At least in the ways that mattered. And so was she.


End file.
